


The Ash is in Our Clothes

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, M/M, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Arthur, recovering addict, is waiting for things to get better. Then he meets Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ash is in Our Clothes

It's been four and a half months since Arthur stopped using.

It's been four and a half months since he checked himself into recovery and gave up the life of a meth addict, four and a half months since he breathed his first sober breath since the twenty-four months prior.

It's been four and a half months, and Arthur doesn't know if it's going to get better.

He had been convinced in rehab that it was going to get better, that things were going to start looking up now that the drug wasn't running his life, but he's already come to find that they were full of shit (as he suspected when he arrived). First of all, he knows the drug still _runs_ his life because he wakes up every morning craving it as strongly as he ever did, and second he's found that no, things _haven't_ gotten better. They're not better at all.

He lost his job when he was still using, and now the only job he can get is working as a barista at a rundown coffee shop in the theatre district (he'd been a fairly impressive architect and making $70,000 a _year_ for God's sake). He's stuck in a crappy studio apartment a few blocks away, can't afford a car. He works double shifts almost every day and still can barely make his rent at the end of the month. The worst part is that day after day he has no one to talk to. He gets up, he walks to work, he works, on Wednesdays he goes to group therapy, he goes home, he eats dinner while watching crappy television, and then he goes to bed. At least when he was an architect and an addict he had friends, places to go, things to do… Things were bright and beautiful, everything was fun…

Now though, he gets no joy out of anything. He can't afford to go to the clubs he used to frequent, and even if he could afford it, he already knows it won't bring him any happiness. Nothing does.

Arthur goes into work, ties his apron behind his back, and steps behind the register, numbly going through the motions. Most of the customers are the same, and they always order the same thing, and Arthur's been working here long enough to know what people will likely order even if he's never seen them before. People are predictable like that.

He sends orders off to the other guy working with him, a man named Yusuf who would probably be manager if not for his tendency to experiment with different coffee concoctions and giving away too many free drinks to pretty girls. Nash is supposed to come in at twelve-thirty. Clockwork. Arthur has the schedule completely memorized.

It's on this day, December the third, though that somebody appears to have thrown a screw into the clock and messed it up, because Arthur looks up as someone is swept inside the door from the snow and time absolutely stops.

It's a man, his coat a ridiculously bright yellow, and he's shivering like he was standing out there in shorts and flip-flops. He approaches the counter without having to wait since the morning rush has already come through and asks, "D'you serve tea?" in a distinctly English accent. Arthur stares at the plush, pillowy mouth and then drags his own dark eyes up to meet the man's blue-gray ones.

"What kind of tea would you like?" Arthur asks. "We have black tea, chai tea, green tea, tea lattes, iced, brewed—"

He's interrupted by the man as he unwinds his red and orange-striped scarf from around his neck and says, "You got any Earl Grey?"

"Um… yes," Arthur says, blinking, not sure why the man has thrown him off of his game so much. He thinks it's probably because he's so bright in his clothes, as if the sun itself has walked through the door.

"Ah, then I'll have a cuppa of Earl Grey then," the man says, scanning Arthur's nametag before declaring, "Arthur."

The name rolls off of the man's tongue like he's known it always.

Arthur punches in his order, watching him warily, and says, "Name?"

"Ah, Eames. Everyone calls me Eames," he says, smiling. Arthur would smile back, but he's forgotten how.

Arthur sends the order back to Yusuf and explains to Eames that it'll just be a few moments.

"No rush," Eames says pleasantly, shrugging as he leans against the counter. "I just botched an audition so I've literally got all day."

An actor.

 _Of course he is_ , Arthur thinks immediately. _There's no way he could be anything else._

Eames saunters over to a corner table and slouches in it, tossing his backpack onto the surface of it and tugging off his skull cap. He scratches his hand through soft brown hair that sticks out in all directions, and Arthur watches him not because he's curious but because there's really no one else in the shop in his line of sight. The same old man that always comes in for an Americano is sitting in the back corner behind the wall, doing work in one of the overly cushy armchairs. A couple of teenage girls who are skipping class are sitting outside despite the cold, and Arthur can see a ponytail bobbing up and down as she animatedly talks with her friend. Yusuf is still fiddling with machines, looking bored.

So, therefore, Eames.

Eames is handsome, not that Arthur cares about that sort of thing too much (his sexual romps with the same sex were mostly blurry half-remembered events on crowded, dark dance floors—looks had nothing to do with it— _not_ that he was interested in Eames anyway). He's young, though probably a year or two older than Arthur (so twenty-six, twenty-seven), dressed in a thick Christmas sweater underneath the stupidly bright coat, trousers that would be nice except that they appear about a size too large and, inexplicably, the oldest and rattiest pair of tennis shoes Arthur has ever seen.

Arthur brings Eames the tea, setting it down gently to make sure it doesn't spill, and comments, "Your feet are going to fall off if you keep wearing those shoes. It's too cold, don't you think?"

"That's the bloody truth," Eames chuckles. "As soon as I get my first paycheck, I'm going to buy a new pair of trainers. I'm afraid my funds are a bit limited considering I just moved here. I'm not quite used to the weather."

"You'll need a pair of boots, not tennis shoes," Arthur mumbles and turns to go back about his business, probably wipe down some still clean tables, but then suddenly warm and sure fingers wrap around his wrist.

Arthur looks back at Eames, tongue darting out between his lips to wet them before he presses them together and silently asks him _what_?

"Thank you for the tea, but could I burden you with asking one more request?"

"What else can I get for you?" Arthur asks, suspicious.

"How about a _smile_ , darling? You look like you're at a bloody funeral."

Arthur can't believe the man has said such a thing, even more so that he seems to be completely serious. Arthur scowls and replies, "I'll smile when I have a reason too."

He fears that statement is far more revealing of himself than it ought to be, but if it is Eames doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he just looks entirely pleased as he lifts his cup and sips at it. "Ah," he says, setting it down gently, "that's a challenge, is it? I suppose I'll just have to make you smile."

"Good luck with that," Arthur mumbles and walks away to tend to a customer that is coming in. He can feel Eames's eyes on the line of his shoulders, can feel him staring for the next half hour until he leaves while Arthur is busy.

* * *

The next morning, Arthur comes in to work and gets through morning rush, and while he's wiping down tables he looks up at the flash of yellow coming through the door. "Good morning!" Eames greets as he comes in. "Arthur, right?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, standing up to his full height, tucking the towel into his back pocket. "You want another cup of Earl Grey?"

Eames, surprisingly, shakes his head. "No, no, surprise me today. I want something different."

Arthur wanders back behind the cash register and gives it proper thought before he sends back an order for the latte that Yusuf usually fixes for himself. "Have another audition today?" Arthur asks as he accepts Eames's money. It's small talk, something he's had to learn to do for the job, and he's far from good at it.

"Actually, I got callbacks, shockingly enough. I suppose I didn't bugger it as much as I thought."

"Congrats," Arthur says, somewhat dully, returning Eames's change. "What are you trying out for?"

"Some little show a little nobody-bloke wrote, it's about dreams or some shite. I haven't read the whole script yet. It seems fascinating though."

Arthur nods, noticing that Eames is wearing a different sweater under his coat today, though it's equally hideous. It does look warm though.

"Say, Arthur," Eames says suddenly, causing Arthur to look up, back to those blue-gray eyes. "Where do you find a dog with no legs?"

Arthur blinks. "Wh… what?"

Completely seriously, "Where do you find a dog with no legs?"

"I…"

Eames grins and answers, "Right where you left it," before bursting out in boisterous laughter.

Arthur stares, mildly disturbed. "W…what, I—"

"Nothing?" Eames tsks. "Not even a quirk of the lips. Okay. How about this one? Why do mice have small balls?"

"I… I don't know, why?" Arthur asks, warily playing along.

"Because they don't invite enough people and they don't dance well."

Eames laughs again. Arthur just lets his lip tighten against his face, almost as if he wants to smile, but he _doesn't_.

"What are you, six?" Arthur mumbles, rolling his eyes as he goes to retrieve Eames's drink and hands it over.

"I _will_ make you smile," Eames says determinedly as he takes the drink from Arthur. "I swear it."

Arthur thinks Eames is just entertaining himself, that he'll get bored of it in a couple of days, but for the next two weeks he comes in every day with new attempts. It starts with jokes that get progressively less decent for a public place, and Arthur realizes as well that Eames's sweaters are getting progressively more ridiculous as well. It's clearly on purpose. He smiles at Arthur and compliments him, the compliments getting as progressively ridiculous as his sweaters. He brings him cookies, leaves him an entirely too large tip. One morning he comes in with handfuls of snow while Arthur is in the back helping Yusuf with a malfunctioning machine and makes a tiny snowman on the counter, complete with candy eyes and nose. The next day, there is no snowman, but there's a goldfish in a bowl, complete with a tiny castle. Yusuf sets it by the window and declares it to be the shop's new mascot.

By the end of the second week, Arthur knows Eames isn't giving up. When the yellow coat comes in, hefting a thin box under his arm, Arthur asks, "Why don't you just let it go? Does it really mean that much to you?"

Eames ignores him, hands over the box. "It's supposed to be colder tonight, down into the single digits. Thought you could use this on your trip home. Assuming that is that you're working another double."

"You know my work schedule?" Arthur snorts.

"It's the same every week, isn't it?"

"Y… yes, usually…"

Arthur opens the box, expecting something—really, anything _but_ what is in the box.

It turns out to be a sweater. One of Eames's tacky, ridiculous Christmas sweaters to be exact.

"Seriously?" Arthur offers flatly as he lifts it out of the box. He secretly marvels at how soft it is under his fingers. It a navy blue with red and white designs. There are owls on the front of it, staring back at him.

"Well, you always seem to be admiring mine, so I thought you could have this one. I have plenty. My mum makes them for me all the time. She's a bit up there in age, you see, and she doesn't have anything better to do than knit. I get at least one in the mail a month. I'm sure I can part with one and she wouldn't mind, especially since it's to keep a little, skinny bloke like you warm. I honestly don't know how the wind doesn't up and blow you away."

Arthur shakes his head. It's the most absurd gift he's ever received. "Okay… so, what do I owe you for such a… special gift?" he asks, and he's fighting a smile he didn't know he still had. Of course, he's only fighting it because he's sure that's what Eames is going to ask for.

…but Eames never says what Arthur is sure he is going to.

"Dinner," Eames says, smiling, "with me."

"Why?" Arthur finds himself asking immediately, eyes wide and as owlish as the eyes on the sweater.

Eames shrugs. "I don't know, I suppose I fancy you. I think you're attractive, and I think that you think that I'm attractive, and generally people who feel that way go on a date. So, what do you say we stop dancing this little dance and have dinner?"

Arthur blinks once, and then again.

And then he laughs.

He laughs because he can't help it, because he must be dreaming, because this is the craziest thing to happen to him in five months. Eames doesn't seem offended by the laughter. In fact, his eyes brighten, and his features soften, and yes, Arthur knew he was good-looking, but this expression suits him.

When Arthur's laughing subsides, and yet he's still smiling, Eames remarks, "You have dimples."

For some reason, this sends a jolt straight to Arthur's heart. It hurts a little, not because he's embarrassed or annoyed, but because he had forgotten. The smile actually makes his face ache a little because the muscles haven't been used in such a way in so long.

"So, if I were to go to dinner with you, and I'm not saying I _am_ , when would that be?"

"Well, I didn't get the part, so I've got time," Eames says, leaning forward on the counter. "How about tonight, after you get off work?"

"I… I can't…"

He has therapy tonight, but he can't tell Eames that.

Eames isn't fazed, but then he never is. "Tomorrow."

"Um…"

From behind him, Yusuf suddenly pipes up, "Just _go_! I'm tired of this game too!"

Well, that answers that.

* * *

At the end of Arthur's shift, he walks out of the shop and is immediately run through by the bitter wind. His coat is old and doesn't hold up against the weather like it used to, and he finds himself digging through his bag until he finds the dumb sweater and pulls it on. It doesn't completely shut out the bite of the wind, but it dulls the sting.

He runs through the snow, it sticking to his eyelashes and in his hair as he makes his way to another therapy session where he awkwardly sits and doesn't say anything while other recovering addicts talk about their lives and cry and hug each other. He never wants to talk to these strangers. He doesn't want to bore them with his miserable life, nor does he think it's any of their business.

Admittedly though, lately it hasn't been quite as bad.

He's not sure if it's a good thing that the highlight of his day is the bizarre things Eames does.

As everyone is getting up to leave, the leader of the circle and Arthur's therapist, Miss Mal, catches him by the arm. "Arthur," she says, her accent lilting off of her tongue.

"Yes?" he asks, tense, awkward.

"How are you?" she asks with that sympathetic look that he hates so much. He doesn't know how he can hate that look but not hate the person it comes with.

"Fine," he responds curtly. "I'm still sober, if that's what you're asking. I haven't even had a cigarette."

The cigarette thing wasn't completely true, but he hadn't had one in two weeks.

Huh.

Not since Eames came to visit him.

"That's not what I'm asking," Mal assures him, rubbing his arm, smiling softly at the feel of the sweater under her hand. "It's just that you never talk in group, and I constantly wonder about your life. I understand that if you're not ready to speak that you don't have to. I know you're a very private person, Arthur. I can't help but worry though. Do you think it would be better if we went back to having one-on-one sessions instead?"

Arthur bites his lip. "Yeah… yeah, probably… but… I'm fine," he tells her. "Honestly. I don't even think about doing it anymore. I'm happy. I'm adjusting."

Arthur can be a great liar when he wants to be. He always has hated people worrying about him.

"Are you getting out? Have you called your mother? Are you seeing anyone?"

"No, _God_ no, and… uh… s-sort of? I mean, I'm not _seeing_ anyone, but I've sort of got a… date."

Mal smiles, bright and warm. Arthur reckons Mal is like springtime. Eames is summertime.

"That's wonderful, Arthur. I'd love to hear all about it. I'll call you this weekend and set up a new schedule for us, all right?"

Arthur leaves, feeling butterflies in his stomach, and he's not sure why.

* * *

The dinner is, in Eames's quite vocalized opinion, a disaster.

The first place they go to is a seafood place, and Arthur doesn't have the guts to tell him until they're about to walk in that he's allergic to shellfish and doesn't like seafood. Eames smiles and says it's not a problem and drives them down the street to an Italian place. They won't let Eames in because he's not wearing a tie, and both of them decide it's probably not the kind of place they want to eat anyways since a dress code usually leads to an entirely too expensive menu. When they get back into Eames's hunk-of-junk car, it decides not to start, so the next thirty minutes are spent with both of them shivering and trying to get it working. When they finally do, they're both half frozen and half starved. They get stuck in traffic until Eames decides to make a turn off and takes Arthur to an apartment complex.

Through the parking garage, up the creaky elevator, and down the fluorescent lit hall to door 491, Eames unlocks and lets them in. Arthur realizes Eames has taken him back to his place.

"A little forward of you," Arthur mentions, joking of course.

"I've got a pizza in the fridge. We'll just eat that," Eames mumbles, frustrated, and he looks at Arthur almost nervously, like he's on the edge of a breakdown.

Arthur says, "Sounds good to me."

Eames gives him a relieved smile and goes into the kitchen through the hanging beads on the doorway (beads? _Really_?).

While Eames is fumbling around with the pizza, Arthur explores. None of Eames's furniture matches, but the room still feels cozy. There are pictures on the wall, dozens of them, of people Arthur can't even begin to know. He figures some of them are Eames's family. The pink-haired girl in punk clothes with her arm around a much younger Eames's shoulder in particular has some familiar features. Sister, probably. Arthur doesn't have any pictures of his family.

Eames decorates with the same disjointedness as he collects furniture. There are paintings on the wall without frames, modern art sculptures, and Arthur imagines they're from friends of Eames's, considering the difference in style and the fact that one of them actually is a painting of Eames (and a nice one at that—they didn't get his eyes right though). The only room with a door on it turns out to be the bathroom, and the rest are covered by hanging beads. Every room has a bookshelf in it, and every shelf is overflowing with books. There are old textbooks, artbooks, Steinbeck, Dickens, and Tolstoy. There are books about movies and books on plays and even the occasional Nicholas Sparks novel. He has every single Harry Potter book, both the UK and US release, and they look like they've been read several times. The bed is large and cushy with a deep-colored comforter and a pale colored throw over it, and it takes up almost the whole tiny room. The bed is unmade, and there are half drunk glasses of water littering the bedside table, along with a squat lamp and an alarm clock. There's a mirror above the dresser, picture crammed into the sides of the frame.

Arthur returns to the living room and looks at his movie collection, finding it as obscure and random as his book collection. It ranges from foreign art films to Steven Seagal movies, and he's not sure what to think of that. Eames is clearly as full of surprises as he first suspected.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur looks up, finding Eames standing in the kitchen doorway, frowning. "I should have…" Eames continues. "I should have asked about the shellfish thing… I should have had a better plan, and my car is a piece of shite, and I've totally ruined everything. You don't… you don't have to stay."

Arthur realizes that he's still wearing his coat. It's no wonder Eames thinks he's going to leave. Arthur offers him a shy smile and removes the coat, tossing it over a chair. "Pizza sounds fantastic. I think this is just fine."

His apartment is much nicer than Arthur's own anyway.

"You're too kind, Arthur," Eames says, shaking his head. "For the record, I'm usually much more charming and competent on a first date."

Arthur looks at him sympathetically, "You don't have to go out of your way for me. I'm… not…"

_I'm not worth all of this effort._

Eames grins at him, as if he's read his mind and says, "Of course I do, darling. You're my date."

When the pizza is finished, they settle on the couch in front of the television and watch one of Eames's movies. Eames is a talker during movies, constantly brining up things he's learned about the movie or discussing this actor or that actor and how he liked him or her better in a certain other work. On most people it would be annoying, but Arthur finds himself intrigued and actually enjoying himself. He likes the sound of Eames's voice, smoky and heavy with his accent. He almost growls when he talks, and that makes Arthur's heart do little jumps that he didn't know it was capable of.

After the movie is over, they're watching old reruns of _Friends_ when Eames turns and looks at Arthur, and Arthur suddenly feels like Eames can see straight into the depths of his soul.

Arthur squirms a little.

"You're… you're not bored, are you?" Eames asks, sounding so insecure about it that Arthur wants to laugh.

"Of course not," he tells him instead, smiling softly. "Are you?"

Eames grins widely. "Definitely not. I just… you know, I don't know if you're actually having a good time or if you're just pitying me. It definitely hasn't gone as planned. I didn't even get to clean up. I didn't expect to have you here for at least three more dates… if you liked me, that is."

Sober Arthur isn't the type that takes risks usually. He's gotten most of the excitement out of his system during hazy, drug-fueled frenzies.

Sober Arthur does venture out on a branch though, scooting closer to Eames and leaning his head against his shoulder. "You're going to an awful lot of trouble for someone you don't know all that well. You couldn't even get me to smile at you until yesterday."

Eames looks down at him, chin scraping a little against Arthur's head. "Pet, I was enamored by you the moment I saw you. There's all the time in the world to get to know more."

"Good to know you like me strictly for the dark circles under my eyes," Arthur snorts.

"Not at all," Eames replies, gently tugging at Arthur's hair until he looks up at him. "There's just something about you, you know? It's not something I can rightly explain."

Arthur stares into those eyes, remembering how time slowed to a stop when Eames walked in, and he thinks he could possibly understand what Eames is trying to say.

Eames.

The summertime, the bright dot of yellow in his otherwise gray and lifeless life.

"You can kiss me if you want," Arthur finds himself saying before his brain even thinks it. Eames takes him up on the offer, immediately closing the small distance between them, hand still curved against the back of Arthur's head. Arthur's eyes flutter closed, and he opens up for Eames, allowing himself to taste and be tasted, and he feels tingly all the way down his spine. Most of his kisses over the past few years aren't all that memorable, but when he kisses Eames it's like he's high again for one blissful moment. Life seeps back into him, and it's glorious and perfect.

They part slowly, both of them breathing the same air, and the colors dull, but only just a little bit. Arthur finds himself momentarily wanting to cry because this is the first time he's sure he's felt happy since he stopped doing meth.

He kisses Eames again and lets that feeling settle in his gut, like warm honey pooling there. Eames tastes like pizza, a hint of mint from his toothpaste (he must have brushed before picking Arthur up), and the underlying flavor that is just him. Arthur wonders if he himself still tastes like meth, even after all this time… if Eames knows, if he can feel it in the notches of his spine and the curve of his lip.

* * *

Eames drives Arthur home and kisses him again at the door to his apartment, and then Arthur is alone.

Arthur is alone, and now he remembers what if feels like to not be that way, and it sucks.

He sleeps because it's really all he has to do, and the next morning he goes to work. He falls back into his typical schedule, right up until Yusuf corners him during his break and asks, "So, how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"The date with that guy, with Eames," Yusuf says as if Arthur is stupid for not knowing what he meant.

"It was… good," Arthur says awkwardly, not wanting to share much of his personal life with Yusuf. He barely knows him, and he's never shown that much of an interest before.

"Details," Yusuf demands. "Did you— _you know_."

Arthur frowns. "What? N… how is that any of your business?"

"It isn't," Yusuf shrugs. "So, are you going to see him again?"

"I… I don't know… I'd like to," Arthur admits, not looking at Yusuf. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks over it. "He's really… really nice."

The little bell over the front door jingles, and the two of them peek out from the kitchen to see none other than Eames himself walk through the door. Yusuf shoves Arthur forward, grinning ear to ear, and says, "Go get him, tiger."

Arthur turns back to tell Yusuf he's on break, but Yusuf is gone, and Arthur works through most of his breaks by his own choice anyway. He approaches the counter, trying not to blush too heavily at the sight of the man. "Hi," Arthur greets, and then suddenly the speaker system starts blaring Sara Bareilles's "Love on the Rocks" (fucking coffee shop music—fucking _Yusuf_ , that asshole).

"Hi," Eames greets back, clearly unfazed. "I had a fantastic evening with you last night."

"I had fun too," Arthur says, and he's most definitely blushing. He's thankful there are no customers right now to see him being embarrassed.

"I just wish I'd gotten to know you a bit better," Eames says, and a pang of fear and guilt hits Arthur in the chest. He doesn't let it show though. "Perhaps we can remedy this with a proper date? When do you get off work tonight?"

"Uh… six," Arthur says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

"Fabulous," Eames says joyously, "then if you'd be so inclined, you can accompany me to a show. A mate of mine is in a performance of Next to Normal at seven, and she gave me free tickets."

Before Arthur realizes what has happened, he's agreed to go, and Eames has a cup of tea, and then he's kissing him—actually _kissing_ him goodbye. Arthur is as red as a lobster and entirely more enchanted than he should be. He can hear Yusuf chuckling behind him and congratulating him.

* * *

Their second date is…

Well, there are words worse than disaster, right?

The two of them settle in for the show, and Arthur's enjoying it, up to a point.

Specifically up until the mother character starts singing, " _Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head? Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead? It's like living on a cliff side not knowing when you'll dive. Do you know, do you know_ _ **what it's like to die alive**_ _?_ "

Suddenly, Arthur feels ill, and subconsciously he reaches over and grabs Eames's hand, squeezing it so tightly he fears he might break his fingers.

"You all right?" Eames whispers, but Arthur can't look at him, can't move or he's going to vomit.

" _When the world that once had color fades to white and gray and black, when tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back—_ _ **You don't know**_ ," the woman on the stage sings, and Arthur can't take it. He can't take it, so he gets up and stumbles through the aisle, audience members complaining, and then he runs up the steps and out through the door into the lobby and to the nearest trashcan where he flings the top off and immediately starts puking.

He's shaking and clammy when his stomach finally settles down, and the fact that Eames's hand is on his back makes the terrible feeling so much worse. It is definitely not Arthur's finest hour.

"Hey, hey, you all right there, love?" Eames asks, voice soft, gentle.

Arthur can't speak at that moment, so he just falls backwards until he's leaning against Eames, and then he turns into him, burying his face against his sweater. For a long moment, he just breathes.

Eames rubs his back in soothing circles and then helps him stand. "Let's get you home then."

Eames just thinks he's sick. Maybe that Arthur's eaten something foul or has come down with whatever's going around since he works around people.

Arthur doesn't know whether to be relieved or upset.

* * *

The next morning, Arthur awakes to the sound of someone knocking on his front door. That's automatically weird because he never has any visitors.

He stumbles out of bed, wrapped in a blanket, and answers the insistent knocking.

It's Eames.

Of course it is.

Immediately Arthur remembers the horrible night before and he wants to go crawl back into bed and hide. Instead he just asks, "What are you doing here?"

"I was so worried about you that I couldn't sleep the whole night," Eames replies and then lifts a Tupperware bowl, brightly colored like the rest of him. "I brought you some chicken noodle soup."

Arthur finds himself stepping back to let Eames inside, blinking as the man presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead. "You don't have a fever, so that's good," Eames says and settles into the tiny segment of Arthur's apartment that is his kitchen, hunting down a kettle in the mess that it is and putting tea on. Arthur shuts the door and stands there awkwardly.

"I'm… sorry about last night," Arthur says. "I'm okay now, really. You don't have to…"

Eames smiles at him, a smile similar to Mal's. He wants to hate it, but he can't. "Well, it may be best to take it easy today, just in case, yeah?" Eames offers.

Arthur wants to cry, but he doesn't.

Instead he goes into his bathroom, showers, and gets ready for work. When he comes out, Eames has brewed tea and stashed the soup in the fridge. "I figured you wouldn't want soup for breakfast," Eames says as an explanation, handing him a mug. "Drink it. I put honey in it, so it should be good."

Arthur does drink it, watching as Eames fixes himself a mug as well. "You came here just to make me tea?"

"To check on you, yes," Eames says. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't know you were sick or I wouldn't have made you come out."

"No… no, I wasn't sick, I—"

And Arthur can't.

He can't tell Eames about how he used to be. He can't tell him about the drugs or the fact that he knows exactly what the woman singing meant. No, Eames _doesn't_ know, and he doesn't want him to, because he's sure that if he does…

If he does, there will be no more Eames.

"I just ate something that disagreed with me," Arthur says after realizing he's been silent for far too long.

Eames's expression falls, just a little, as if he's thinking of something, but then he just says, "Well, better safe than sorry, I always say."

Arthur gathers the many bills and magazines and newspapers off of the table and crams the pile into another pile, trying to straighten up at least a little so that Eames can sit down. "Sorry about the mess," he says, hating that yes, it is indeed a mess. It's the messiest, loneliest, most piece-of-shit apartment in existence. "I wasn't expecting company."

"Don't worry about it. It's fine, no worse than mine."

That's a lie, but Arthur appreciates it anyway.

"Do you always keep it so cold though? You poor darling must freeze yourself to death in this place."

"Oh, the heat doesn't always work," Arthur says, giving the radiator a good and swift kick. It comes on. "This is probably one of the cheapest places in town. It's all I can afford. I've got a ton of debt, so… y'know…"

"Ah, student loans?" Eames asks.

"Yes."

_No._

Arthur continues to drink his tea so he doesn't have to talk, and then Eames pipes up, "So, when do you get off of work tonight?"

"Oh, I only have a morning shift today, so I'll be off at twelve-thirty," Arthur says.

"You want to have lunch? I can pick you up."

Arthur stares down into his tea. "I…" _Of course I do_. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, both of our previous dates haven't exactly gone as planned, and…"

"Third time's the charm," Eames says, squeezing Arthur's shoulder affectionately.

Arthur looks at him, and he can't help himself. "Okay. Lunch sounds good."

* * *

Lunch…

Lunch doesn't go badly, shockingly enough. They have sandwiches in a little café that Eames works in occasionally. They're the best sandwiches Arthur's ever had, and the company is even better. During that lunch he finds them just talking, without him worrying about a thing. He learns that Eames is twenty-six years old, that he lived in the UK with his mother until he was fourteen and then came stateside to get to know his father. He's always loved to act and wants to be on stage, but would be content to just do shows as a hobby if he had to get a more consistent job. He finds out that Eames loves kids and would like to have a family of his own someday, but preferably when he's thirty or so. He's known he was gay for most of his life, and both of his parents are fine with it. He has a sister who's a drummer in a punk rock band and he goes and visits her when he can afford it.

Arthur doesn't say much about himself and thankfully does it subtly so Eames doesn't realize it, but eventually he ends up having to say something, so he tells Eames that he's twenty-five, tells him that he's dated both women and men, but he's still closeted to his mother… and then he ends up admitting that he's estranged from his family.

"Why?" Eames asks. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"We just uh… never really ah… we never really saw eye to eye. My mom was always a lot more focused on her own problems."

Eames touches Arthur's hand, rubs the back of it with his thumb, but thankfully he doesn't say anything.

As they're sharing a dessert of apple pie a la mode, it somehow comes up that Arthur used to be an architect. "Fancy," Eames says, not seeming to notice how Arthur blanches as soon as it comes out of his mouth. "Why the bloody hell are you working in a coffee shop then?"

Arthur looks out the window. "Um… well, I guess it just didn't work out."

 _Because I thought getting high and enjoying myself was more important than my work… My work which was so trying that I started getting high so that I could get it done quicker_.

"It happens," Eames says lightly. "Well, perhaps it was meant to be. Never would have met you, otherwise."

Arthur stares at Eames for a long moment, swallows, and he almost tells him. He almost tells him that his Mom always chose her boyfriends over him, that he worked ridiculously hard to get through school and into a great job in the efforts to get her attention, but it was never enough. He almost tells him about the time he went out with some old college friends of his in order to relax from the high stress job, and he ends up trying meth for the first time. He almost tells him how it made the world feel brand new again and gave him the ability to do anything, about how for the first few months it made him perfect at his work, that even though he dropped weight and didn't sleep, that he was twitchy and paranoid, he always got his assignments done early. He almost tells him about how he started partying because sleep was for the weak, how partying became more fun and more important, how he blew his money on more drugs, how he lost his job because he couldn't be bothered to show up, how he spent his savings until he was broke and kept it up even in debt, how he finally went to rehab when he woke up in a bus station bathroom two towns over in a pair of clothes that didn't belong to him. He almost tells him about the painful detox, the nightmares, the therapy, the way the color drained from the world without the meth, and he realized that he'd ruined everything.

He almost tells him.

But he doesn't.

* * *

They keep dating for two more weeks, and then Arthur has a rare day off that Eames uses to spend the whole day together. Eames hasn't gotten to experience being a tourist since he's been working odd jobs and going to auditions (he's finally got one), so they go ice skating and see the sights. With anyone else, it would be boring, but Arthur enjoys it and is still laughing when they get back to his apartment at eleven at night.

Arthur stands there in front of his door, looking up at Eames's cold-flushed face, his slightly chapped lips, his smile…

…and then they're kissing, entwining with each other and touching anywhere and everywhere. It's absolutely filthy, the way they lick and nip at each other, and really the question is pointless when Arthur breaks and breathlessly asks, "D'you want to come inside?"

It takes him five minutes to get the door unlocked because Eames is kissing down his neck and making him shake and shiver in ways he didn't know he was capable of. He finally gets the door open, and they're tumbling inside, pulling at each other's clothes and falling into Arthur's bed.

Arthur gasps when his back hits the sheets, Eames straddling his waist as he works feverishly at Arthur's buttons. " _Eames_ ," he says, voice trembling and all the air leaves him in a gust as Eames leans over and starts mouthing at the hot skin he's freeing from the shirt. His entire body arches off the bed to get closer to Eames's mouth.

Eames pulls away, but only so he can get Arthur's belt undone and get his pants and underwear off. Arthur flings his own shirt to the floor and then grabs Eames's and tugs his ridiculous sweater off and throws it aside.

Eames crowds him back down onto the bed, licking into his mouth, and Arthur grinds against Eames's still clothed thigh. He's so hard he can't stand it, whimpering against Eames's lips. The man smiles against his mouth and whispers gruffly, "Patience, love. Where are your supplies?"

Arthur swings a hand out to the bedside table, blindly searching for the knob on the drawer. Eames seems to get the hint and digs into it himself. For a moment he leaves Arthur on the bed so that he can get out of his trousers and shoes, but then he's crawling back over him, kissing his forehead, the tip of his nose, the hinge of his jaw. He sucks a dark mark into the side of Arthur's neck, and the feel of it makes Arthur practically gurgle. Eames chuckles softly and leans back to slick his fingers.

As he's doing so, Arthur finally takes a moment to look and admire. Momentarily the wind is knocked out of him because Eames is bigger than he expected, and it's been a long time since Arthur's had anyone. Still, he doesn't linger too long on the worry because _fuck_ Eames is absolutely _covered_ in tattoos. He's muscular and stocky, and his chest has a fine peppering of chest hair. He's simply gorgeous, and Arthur is speechless.

Eames leans over Arthur, between his already spread legs, lifts up one of Arthur's feet up onto his shoulder but not before kissing the bone of his heel. "Hold on, darling. I'm going to take good care of you," he tells him, and Arthur groans as Eames pushes one finger inside, just to the first knuckle. "God, you're tight, pet. No worries. I'll loosen you right up, yeah?"

It turns out that Eames is quite the talker, which is the first thing Arthur really learns about him that isn't surprising. He coaxes Arthur through it as he fingers him, whispering sweet nothings and calling him the sweetest of words. He kisses every mole and freckle, stubble of his beard scraping deliciously against his skin, and soon enough he's got three fingers brushing against his prostate, and Arthur's body is spasming towards and away from the touch, unsure what to do.

Eames leans close to Arthur's face, nearly bending him in half as he presses his forehead to Arthur's. "Darling," he says, and Arthur barely manages to open his eyes. "Are you ready, love?"

Arthur nods and chases him for a quick, messy kiss before Eames pulls back. Arthur watches as Eames slides on the condom, slicks himself up. Even in the darkness of the room, Eames's eyes are glittering. Arthur wants to fall into them the same way he used to want to fall into the twinkling night sky back when he was fresh faced, young, and longing for an escape. Maybe he still is looking for that escape, but now isn't the time to think about it too much.

Eames presses in, and it's still tight. Arthur's eyes squeeze shut, and he inhales sharply through his nose as he tries to relax himself. Eames gently rubs at Arthur's thigh, mumbling nonsensically. He continues to push in slowly, but only when he's positive Arthur can take it, and it isn't long before he's fully seated in him.

"All right?" Eames asks, panting. There's sweat glimmering on his forehead and chest. It's dripping off the tips of his hair, plastering it to his forehead. Arthur is sure he's in a similar state, feeling dampness at his temples.

"Yes," Arthur breathes, and Eames starts to move.

It feels incredible. Arthur's not used to remembering it this vividly, for knowing every detail of his emotion. His entire body is shaking with it. He makes a small sound and Eames reaches between them and wraps a hand around the base of Arthur's cock, squeezing just enough while slowing his thrusts to a stop. He waits until Arthur's calmed down enough and then he starts moving again.

"Come on, cherub," Eames says affectionately. "Moan for me. Tell me how it feels. Talk to me, sweetheart."

"F- _fuck_ , Eames, it—it feels so good," Arthur groans shamelessly. "Jesus Christ, it's so good…"

Eames smiles, all crooked teeth and mischievousness, and even that is perfection. He thrusts into Arthur again and Arthur moans loudly, probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Eames grabs hold of the headboard for leverage and starts slamming into him with more intent, and the thumping of the headboard against the wall is in time with the head of Eames's cock brushing against Arthur's prostate. Arthur's cries climb in pitch and volume until he's teetering on the edge, hands desperately fumbling for his cock.

"Come on, love," Eames grunts, and clearly he's close too by the strained sound of his voice. "Come for me. Let me see you come."

"Eames," he pants.

Eames leans over and mouths at Arthur's chin and pulls back to slam home one more time. It takes two tugs at Arthur's cock and he's toppling over the edge into the stinging, white hot oblivion. For a long few moments his entire body is rigid and trembling, and he thinks he may never come back from this glorious explosion. He's sure he's talking, but he can't hear the words, can't recall what they are.

He recovers slowly, chest rising and falling heavily with each breath. Eames is still hovering over him, shaking and breathless. "You gorgeous thing," Eames pants, smiling at him. Arthur realizes that Eames came with him. Arthur makes a mental note to try and pay more attention next time.

Eames finally pulls out of him, ties off the condom and throws it away. He returns from the bathroom with a wet wash cloth that he uses to clean Arthur off, and he leaves that on the floor with their clothes. When Eames lies down, pulling the blankets over them both, Arthur immediately seeks him out, curling close to him. He presses a kiss to Eames's chest, right over his heart, and settles his hand over it as if to make sure it sticks.

"Did you mean that?" Eames asks sleepily after a few moments. His hand is idly playing with Arthur's hair.

"Mean what?" Arthur mumbles, slouched against him like all of his muscles have lost their functioning.

"What you said… When you…" It's the first time Arthur's ever heard Eames sound unsure, nervous. "When you said that you ah… that you loved me."

Arthur's awake now. "Ah…"

"It's okay if you didn't," Eames says quickly. "I know we all say things in the ah… in the heat of the moment, and I don't want you to feel obligated to, ah… to…"

Arthur sits up, looks down at Eames. Eames, the beautiful, perfect man lying in his bed that's brought color into his life again and made him feel alive. He touches the man's face, smoothing away the lines of worry, and he says, "I love you."

Eames's eyes gleam, and he whispers, "Oh, _darling_."  
  


Arthur wakes up with a head stuffed with cotton. His arm is slung over Eames's chest, and the other man is snoring quite loudly. It's cold in the apartment, and Arthur thinks the heat must have gone out again, so he kisses Eames's cheek and crawls out of bed in search of fixing it. He grabs the first thing he can find off the floor, Eames's stupid sweater, and tugs it on.

In the kitchen area, he bangs the radiator until it starts working again, and then he puts the kettle on. He figures Eames will want tea, and frankly Arthur has enough of coffee at work every day.

He looks back at Eames in the bed, remembering the night before with a soft, fond smile. He can't remember the last time he's had sex in his own bed, or with someone who didn't leave afterwards. He can't remember the last time he woke up feeling satisfied and without a hint of regret.

He's pretty sure he's in love with Eames.

When the man awakens, sits up with a mess of bedhead and smiles sleepily at Arthur, he's _sure_ of it.

* * *

In his next therapy session, he tells Mal about Eames.

"Arthur, that's wonderful," she says, and for once her smile isn't tilting towards sympathetic or worried. She seems genuinely excited. "I'm so happy for you."

Arthur can't help but smile back. "He's really great," he tells her. "He's the only thing in my life that feels right… I don't… I don't think I've ever felt this way before about anyone."

It's the first time he's ever really opened up to her, and this doesn't go without notice. "That's so fantastic, Arthur. I'm so happy that you have someone in your life to talk to. You're always so quiet at these sessions. I don't think I've ever seen you look this healthy."

Arthur thinks back on his first session, restless and twitching, rail thin and constantly darting his eyes around the office. He'd let her talk to him, tried to follow through with her advice, but he hadn't said a word the entire session.

"He sounds like a fine young man. I'd love to meet him. Perhaps you could bring him with you to your next session."

"Oh…" Arthur says, expression falling. "No, ah… well, I mean… I haven't exactly… told him about… all this…"

Her eyebrows knit together in concern. "Don't you think that you should discuss your past?"

"I don't see why it's relevant," Arthur mumbles, shutting down immediately. "He's not a part of my past, and it doesn't matter."

"Arthur," she says softly, folding her hands on her desk. "I understand your hesitance. It's hard to tell the people we love about mistakes we've made. However, I feel like you should explain your situation to him. If he loves you, I promise you he'll understand. It'll be beneficial to your recovery. You'll have someone to discuss it with besides me, and he can help you to avoid situations which trigger your need to use—"

"Yeah, but I'm not going to relapse," Arthur interrupts, a bit more loudly than he intended. "If I'm not relapsing, then he doesn't have to know."

"As much as I hope that's true and am rooting for you every step of the way, the fact is that there is a high percentage of relapse in methamphetamine users within sixth months of sobriety. I am just hoping to help you take preventative measures."

Arthur frowns, jaw set. "I don't need preventative measures because I'm not going to use."

She sighs, trying to mask her frustration. Sometimes he wishes she would just let it all out, scream at him until she feels better. Instead, she calmly responds, "All right then."

At the end of the session, Arthur leaves her office and stands on the corner, waiting for the bus, and he smokes a cigarette. The burn feels good in his chest and helps him to forget the anger he feels.

* * *

He gives Eames a key to his apartment and hopes it's the right thing to do.

* * *

Eames's rehearsals start up, so Arthur doesn't see much of him, though most evenings Eames will come over and sleep in Arthur's bed. Most of the time they have sex (and it's as mind-blowing as the first time, at least for Arthur), but sometimes Eames just crawls into bed and wraps his arms around Arthur, and that's really nice too.

They talk, little pointless conversations in quiet voices, both of them drifting on the edge of sleep. Eames smooths his large hands down the planes of Arthur's body, leaving gentle kisses to the back of his neck and tells him that he's beautiful.

Arthur knows he isn't, but he feels beautiful when he's with Eames… or at least he feels less hollow.

He tells Eames this, voice scratchy and laced with oncoming dreams, and Eames kisses the corner of his mouth.

That night he wakes up in tears, but all that Eames has to do is tug him closer. Arthur hides from the world in Eames's arms.

* * *

In a way, Eames has become Arthur's new drug of choice.

Arthur realizes this when he's on break at work, January 15th, and he's smoking a cigarette. He's been a foul mood all day because he hasn't seen Eames in two, and while Yusuf seems to find it kind of funny, the customers sure don't. The theatre Eames is working in is clear across the district, and with the snow still coming through in white-drenching intervals, it's not always a wise investment for him to drive all this way for coffee or tea, especially if he wants to get back in time.

Arthur is jonesing for Eames, and the cigarette doesn't really help. He finishes it anyway and stubs it out in the ash tray before returning to work.

He's stopped going to therapy.

It's probably not his best move, but he can't stand the way Mal looks at him, like she's waiting for him to slip up. He doesn't like the way she asks about Eames, asks about how Eames is _treating_ him, the way she thinks (he knows she does, he saw it on her face) that it's entirely too soon for Eames to have a key to his place. It seems that since he started dating Eames, they've stopped talking about meth and started talking about Eames instead. He hates it because it's not her business. He hates it because he can't help but think that she's trying to take that happiness away from him, that she wants him to be miserable. When he accused her, she told him that she wasn't, that she was looking out for him, that she didn't want him jumping in with both feet in case there wasn't a life preserver, and that was when Arthur had walked out.

Still, it's lonely when Eames is busy, and now he doesn't have anyone to discuss the feelings with. Now that he is feeling things again.

He wipes down the tables for the third time in an hour, fixes himself a cup of coffee, and hopes it takes the edge off.

* * *

That night, Arthur gets home to a note on the table with a key.

The note, in Eames's indelicate scrawl says: _Sorry it took so long. Finally got your key made. I have rehearsal late tonight, but feel free to test out the key if you want to and make yourself at home. –E_

Arthur does. He buries himself in Eames's sheets and breathes him in, and it's not enough, but for the moment it is.

Around midnight, Eames shuffles in, tossing his coat over a chair (Arthur can see the shadow on the wall through the open door). He closes his eyes and pretends that Eames didn't wake him as the man wanders into the room, but when Eames strips down and crawls into bed Arthur turns right into his arms and kisses his chest.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Eames asks, combing his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"It's okay," Arthur mumbles. "I missed you."

Eames hums, shimmying down so that he can meet Arthur's lips, kissing him earnestly.

They fuck, slow and languid, and Arthur falls asleep in Eames's arms when it's over. When he wakes up the next morning though, Eames has already left.

* * *

It's Arthur's day off, so he ends up wandering around the city, finishing off a pack of cigarettes and buying another. He ends up in the same part of town as his old workplace, finds himself looking inside the window at what used to be his office.

There's a girl there, long waves of brown hair, eyebrows furrowed as she studiously focuses on a drawing. Even with the intense concentration, he can tell that she's enjoying herself. She seems so young and full of energy, and Arthur wonders if he was ever like that.

No, he remembers, he wasn't. He was never excited about his job because he never wanted to be an architect.

Arthur has never known what he wants to do.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away, but he's caught off guard when he nearly runs into Dominic Cobb, his old boss. He stumbles backward, eyes wide and a panicked. He has no idea what to do or say.

"Arthur?" Cobb says, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "It is you, isn't it?"

Arthur nods and thinks that Cobb's wary smile is perfect for Mal's sympathetic one. They'd make a great couple.

"You grew your hair out. I barely recognized you. You look good," Cobb says, and Arthur at first thinks he's just being polite. Then, he remembers the ashen skeleton boy he was last time he and Cobb saw each other and thinks that he's probably being serious.

"I guess," Arthur says, looking not at Cobb but at an unidentified spot over his shoulder. "How are you?"

"Good," Cobb says lightly. "Working hard, you know."

"Yeah… I know…" Arthur mumbles.

"So, where are you at now? Architecture still?"

"No, uh… no," Arthur says, head screaming _. You fired me!_ He thinks bitterly. _Who would be stupid enough to hire a meth head like me?_

He reminds himself that he's not on meth anymore.

"Just… you know, keep on keeping on," Arthur shrugs, forcing a smile. "Just wandering, searching for something to do."

"I was headed to lunch, if you want to join," Cobb offers, and Arthur already knows the man won't take no for an answer.

Cobb takes him to a Thai place, and halfway through his massaman curry, Arthur starts talking. Cobb becomes a surrogate therapist at that table, Arthur unable to hold it in.

Cobb of course, is not surprised by Arthur's experience with drugs. He'd seen him wither away from its use, had to fire him for not showing up not because he wanted to but because his supervisor made him. Arthur doesn't really find any comfort in that information, mostly because at this point he doesn't care. He tells Cobb about rehab, about his shitty job and his shitty apartment and his shitty life, and then he tells him about Eames.

"So, you guys are pretty serious then," Cobb says, "Congrats."

Arthur sniffs. "Well, I think we're serious, and there are times I think he's serious about me, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if he feels the same way or as intensely as I do. He's never told me that he loves me, and that freaks me out."

He's never admitted that even to himself, so he's a little surprised when it comes out of his mouth.

"It just takes some time for people," Cobb assures him. "You two haven't been together all that long, after all. Just be patient."

Arthur frowns because he's a bit tired of being patient. He's been patient in his attempts to be happy, he's been patient in his attempts to find color, in his attempts to stay sober. He feels like he's waiting on life to pick back up and that he no longer has control over whether it does or not. He's tired of waiting. He wants things to _happen_.

He doesn't tell Cobb this, instead letting Cobb talk about a few of his ex-lovers and how their relationships worked or didn't. They talk about work, though Arthur's not terribly invested in the conversation, discuss how good the food is… By the end of the meal, Arthur's food is paid for and Cobb has Mal's number.

* * *

Arthur is still walking the streets by that evening. He's tired, but he doesn't want to be back at the apartment alone, especially with his thoughts as heavy as they are.

_He's never told me he loves me._

That particular thought just will not leave him alone, and he starts to wonder if Eames is serious about all this. Maybe it took a long time for Eames to get the key made because he wasn't sure about letting Arthur in ( _but you have the key now, though maybe he just felt guilty_ ). Maybe Eames sees other people in his off time ( _he doesn't have off time though, not really, not when he's doing a show—but how do you know that, really? What if that's just what Eames tells you?)_.

He's feeling worse and worse, anxiety coiling up his spine like a snake, its fangs already sinking into his skin and filling him with venomous thoughts.

_Of course he doesn't love you._

_Why would he want you?_

_You're ugly._

_You're a loser._

_There's a reason why you were alone before him._

He'd been told by Mal that should these negative thoughts arise he should call her, but he can't think of her now, can't remember this, partly because the poison is seeping in and partly because he doesn't want her to be right.

He stops, takes a few deep breaths, and digs out his last cigarette, lighting it in the hopes of calming his nerves.

 _Eames doesn't even know you smoke_.

He looks up to watch the Don't Walk sign, waiting for it to change, and that's when he sees.

Across the street, in the restaurant, Eames is sitting at a table with another man. A beautiful brunet who is smiling at Eames like he's the greatest thing ever… and Eames, Eames is smiling back, and Arthur feels ill, feels like he's going to collapse under this new information as Eames laughs with the man, completely unaware.

There could be a logical explanation, but all Arthur can think is that he's right. He's right about Eames not caring, and he's right about how he has no reason too.

And he breaks.

* * *

It's three days later before Arthur sees Eames again.

Arthur is feeling good, feeling golden, wearing a glow stick around his neck, hair in disarray. He's not entirely sure where he's been, it all a blurry, smudgy memory of club after club, grinding against strangers, drinking any drink someone fancied to buy for him, and whittling away the meth he'd bought until it was gone.

It takes him several minutes to get his front door open because he's dizzy and the keys keep slipping out of his hands since they're so sweaty, and then he's inside, and there's Eames.

Eames is sitting on his couch, looking like he hasn't slept. Eames is in his apartment, staring at him like he's a ghost, and then he's crying out, "Oh, thank God," and pulling Arthur into his arms.

Arthur vibrates against him for a few moments, eyes looking everywhere around the apartment, searching for cameras. He's not entirely sure why Eames is so relieved.

"Jesus," Eames hisses. "Fuck, where have you _been_? I stopped by your workplace and Yusuf said you didn't show up, so I came back here thinking maybe you were sick or you overslept, and you weren't here, and you weren't at my place, and I looked everywhere, _everywhere_ —I called the police, I called them, and—"

And suddenly Eames is crying.

He's _crying_.

"That's stupid," Arthur finds himself saying, petting Eames's head. "I'm fine. How long have I been gone for?"

"Like… two day—two days," Eames says, stepping away from Arthur and staring at him, eyebrows furrowing. "How would you… how is that stupid? How would you not know that? What—what's wrong, what's going on?"

Arthur cocks his head to the side and realizes he's fighting the giggles, and Eames's expression becomes more concerned.

"Arthur?"

"Don't worry about it I'm fine I was just out having a little fun I mean honestly I'm allowed right," he says, forgetting his punctuation.

"You're drenched in sweat," Eames says.

"You should take my clothes off," Arthur says, grinning manically, and he stumbles up onto the couch, taking them off himself.

"Arthur, just sit down for a second," Eames says, voice shaking, and _God_ , Eames is so bright and pretty. Arthur just wants to devour him whole, so he can fill this hollow void that seems to have opened up inside his chest. He paws at the skin there to make sure he hasn't been entirely split open.

"You should invite that guy you had dinner with over," Arthur tells him, bouncing on the sofa cushions and falling gracelessly over the arm of the couch when Eames grabs for him. "We can have a threesome if you want. We can do that, and then everything will be okay."

"What are you talking about?" Eames demands and finally manages to catch Arthur when Arthur gets caught up with trying to get his pants off and can't quite figure it out because he's too dizzy.

Eames grabs Arthur by the arms and forces him to face him, to look at him, and says sternly, " _Arthur_!"

Arthur grins at him. "I'm sorry," he says, head rolling around on his neck like he's forgotten how to make it stay up. "I'm high as fuck right now. I can't think straight." He sniffs.

Eames's expression goes momentarily carefully blank. "You're high," he says.

"Mm-hmm," Arthur says, closing one eye while rapidly blinking the other one as a headache starts to set in. He nearly collapses on Eames for a moment, and then Eames is shoving him into a chair. "I feel good," he tells Eames. "I felt really bad but right now I feel really good so the really bad is gone but I've got this hollow place still and it still feels icky but I'm not thinking about that right now."

"What did you take?" Eames asks, voice dangerously low as he checks Arthur's pupils. Arthur bets they're dilated, remembers they were when he saw his reflection at some point over the past couple of days.

Arthur kisses Eames but is abruptly pushed off. "What? What's wrong?" Arthur asks because he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why Eames is upset. He's letting Eames have his cake and eat it too, isn't he? He offered to let Eames sleep with the handsome brunette.

"What did you _take_?" Eames demands, and he looks angry, angrier than Arthur's ever seen him. His eyes aren't sparkling at all, instead deep, black pits. His mouth is a thin line, his jaw set, and underneath that anger there's something else, something frightened, something broken.

"My mouth is really dry," Arthur says.

" _ **Arthur**_ ," Eames growls.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, realizing that he's done something wrong, though right now he's not entirely sure what that is. He's dizzy.

"Arthur, I'm not going to be mad," Eames says, trying to sound calm, and Arthur realizes that he himself is rocking back and forth and whimpering now. "Arthur, just—just talk to me. Tell me what you took. I need to know what you took."

"No, you'll be mad. You're already mad."

"Arthur, please."

"I'm scared."

"Arthur," Eames's voice cracks around the word.

"My mouth is dry."

Eames stares at him, lips quivering.

Finally, Arthur answers, "Meth."

"Jesus Christ," Eames breathes, dropping his chin to his chest for a moment. When he lifts his head again, he looks on the brink of tears and Arthur squirms, wanting to escape. "Why, Arthur? Why?"

"Because it always makes me feel good when I feel bad."

"You…" Eames cuts himself off, shakes his head, exhales. "You've done it before?"

Arthur nods. "You said you wouldn't be mad."

Eames looks like he's trying very hard not to be.

"You never… you never told me," Eames whispers, thumb brushing against Arthur's cheekbone, and Arthur realizes there's a tear there. He also can't stop shaking. "Why… why didn't you tell me, Arthur? Why? You should have… I don't… I don't know what to do, I…"

Arthur momentarily becomes distracted by the feel of Eames's thumbs constantly brushing against his cheekbones, the way his tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. Eames is still talking.

"You… I… we can't. We can't talk about this. Not right now. You need to sober the fuck up. You need… You need to go somewhere where you can sober up. Give me what all you've got left."

"Don't got any left."

Somehow Arthur still ends up stripped nude. Eames searches every last article of his clothing and goes through his whole apartment before he's sure Arthur's telling the truth.

Arthur stands, stark naked in the middle of the room, watching Eames as he throws things back in drawers. When Eames looks up at Arthur he looks ashamed, though if it's ashamed of Arthur or ashamed of himself for being so foolish, Arthur can't be sure.

Eames wraps Arthur in a blanket and hands Arthur his cell phone. "Call someone. Someone who can help you with this. I can't… I can't do this right now. Call someone right now, and it better not be someone to bring you more drugs. I can't… I need to go. I can't be here right now. I need to go and… I have to leave."

Arthur wants to beg him not to go, wants to say he's sorry, wants to tell him he won't do it again if he just stays…

But he doesn't.

Instead he just stands there, twitching, chewing his lip until it bleeds, hand trembling as he dials a number on his phone, and then the door shuts, and Eames is gone.

"Hello?... Arthur?" Mal says over the line.

* * *

Arthur sits with his knees folded up to his chest in a chair in Mal's office, pale and twitching restlessly. He's dressed in an old pair of jeans and the sweater Eames gave to him, and they hang on him because all he's been doing for the past few days is sleeping. He's dropped about six pounds, chewed his fingernails down to the quick and then bloodied his fingers chewing on the skin.

"So," he says, biting at the skin on his thumb and not looking at her, "Last week I relapsed."

Mal knows this much. She came to his apartment that night and rocked him to sleep in her arms. He doesn't remember much about it other than that he cried and cried and cried.

"How are you feeling?" Mal asks, voice sober and soft.

"Really… really bad," Arthur mumbles. "Worse than before. Worse than ever. Eames left. I'm wearing this sweater because it smells like him… I wouldn't have even gotten out of bed otherwise."

Mal nods, expression solemn. "You haven't spoken to him then."

"Don't have the guts," Arthur says dismally and buries his face in his knees. "I wish I was dead."

"Arthur," she says, voice barely above a whisper. She gets out of her chair and combs a hand through his hair, a comforting gesture. "Don't say that. All is not lost. It's going to be all right—"

"No, it's not. It wasn't before. It's not going to be better. The only thing that made it good was Eames, and now Eames is gone, and it's all my fault."

He says it all to his knees, voice blank, hollow.

"All the colors are gone… I don't want to be alive. People aren't supposed to feel like this when they're alive."

He cries there in her office, but he doesn't make a sound as he does it.

He doesn't need her pity.

He doesn't deserve it.

* * *

He refuses to go back to the rehabilitation center over a slip-up, and somehow Mal convinces him not to kill himself if only because he needs to see Eames again and talk to him.

He gets a haircut.

He goes back to work, because there's nothing else to do.

Yusuf watches him suspiciously and Arthur tries not to burst into tears in front of anyone.

Mal comes by whenever she can for coffee, but he still doesn't know what to say to her, so he just lets her try and encourage him.

It's two weeks before Arthur sees Eames again, and when he does, Eames is as unexpected as he always is.

Arthur's cleaning tables when he looks up and watches a flash of yellow come through the door, shaking off the snow. Arthur doesn't know if he wants to start sobbing or if he wants to run into the kitchen and hide. He does neither.

Eames looks at Arthur and, fuck, this is the most awkward moment of his life.

"Hi," Eames says.

"Hi," Arthur replies, voice hoarse.

Silence.

Eames shuffles his feet, rubs the back of his neck. "Ah, how—how are you?"

"I'm…"

_Miserable, borderline suicidal, brokenhearted, and so, so, so sorry…_

"I'm okay…" Arthur lies. "You?"

"I'm all right… you know…" Eames shrugs. "I ah… I didn't think you'd be here."

"I can… just… I'll just go," Arthur says, every one of Eames's words stabbing through him.

And then Eames cries out, "No! No… stay. I was hoping… I was hoping that you would be, I just didn't think you'd…"

Arthur looks at him and wants to fall into his arms. He almost does.

Eames sighs and says, "I've missed you."

"I missed you too…" Arthur says, and he can't help the way his voice cracks in the middle. "S-so much… I…" He has to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to keep from bursting into tears, but then, all of a sudden he starts talking and he can't stop. "Eames, I… I'm so, so… _sorry_ … I should've told you about—and I haven't since, I haven't, and I won't again, it was just a minor relapse because I saw you with that other guy and I thought you had someone else and I felt so alone and hollow and scared and I couldn't stand it, I couldn't _stand_ it, and the drugs made it go away for a minute, for just a minute, but then you left for real and—"

" _Arthur_ ," Eames says, grabbing hold of Arthur's arms, and Arthur freezes there, staring at him through wet eyes, and when did he start crying?

"I used to use for two years, but I'd been clean for four and a half months when I met you, and you were the only thing that made me happy, and that's why I was so upset when I saw you with that guy…" Arthur says more slowly.

"Arthur, that man I was with was Robert Fischer. He's the one who wrote that play about dreams. He didn't have a part for me in that one, but he wanted to talk to me about a project that I would star in. He didn't think I fit the role in his play but really liked my acting. I was _going_ to tell you about it when I got home."

"I'm sorry…" Arthur whimpers. "I should've told you everything… but I was afraid you wouldn't like me anymore."

"Like you?" Eames says, and then wraps his arms around Arthur. "Arthur, darling, I _love_ you."

Arthur sobs, burying his face into Eames's yellow coat. He's warm and bright like the sun.

"You never _said_ , you never said," Arthur blubbers pathetically, and Eames rocks him, shushes him gently.

"I know, love, I know," Eames says. "I'm so sorry… I was afraid things were going too fast. I didn't… I didn't realize how much you needed me… No one's ever needed me…"

Arthur curls even closer if it's possible, and for a long few minutes they just stand there like that. Finally, Arthur calms down and pulls away, sniffing and wiping his face with his sleeve. Yusuf is watching from behind the counter, but Arthur doesn't care.

"I think… I think we've both made a couple of mistakes, haven't we?" Eames says. "I know one thing is for sure… as soon as I walked out of your flat, I knew I'd made a huge mistake. I was angry, and I let it fuel me, but I still love you. I knew that immediately… in fact, I was _sure_ in that moment that I was, because even though I was so _angry_ and so _hurt_ , I knew I still wanted you in my life… I wanted to go back in there and hold you, but I… I was stubborn, and I couldn't."

"You were right to," Arthur sniffs. "I don't deserve you, Eames… I'm… a mess. I've never done anything with my life. I spent far too long trying to win my mother's approval, I crave meth every fucking morning, and I'm stuck in a nowhere job en route to a nowhere life… I should have turned you down the day you asked me out, should have known you were too good for me when I went into your home and saw how loved you were… when you held me so gently and spoke to me so nicely… I knew that being with me would just drag you down. You've got everything in the world going for you, and I'm just… an ex-junkie loser who hasn't even read half the books on your shelf."

Eames has that sympathetic look on his face, the sad one that Mal's been having in Arthur's latest therapy sessions.

Arthur continues, regardless. "…but… I couldn't let you go… because it hurt too much to think of life without you… You made me feel alive again… you made that sick hollow feeling go away… I could feel the sunshine again, and the sunshine was you. Even though it was freezing cold, it felt like summer… and when I thought you were playing me, I just… broke. I broke, and I wanted to not feel bad. I wanted that feeling that you gave me, and I thought that the drugs would… and they sort of did, but it was hollow, lifeless… it didn't feel right…"

Eames reaches out and thumbs away a tear. "It's still not okay, what you did…" he tells Arthur. "I don't want this to be the end, but… but it will be if you don't promise me right here and right now that you'll never do it again. You won't touch the stuff, and if you're ever feeling that hollow, sad feeling again that you'll tell me and let me fill your heart with all the wonderful thing that you are… everything perfect and fantastic about you that you don't see, not like I see… You're my sunshine too, you know. Every time you smile is a gift… I'm the only one who can really make you do it… It's mine…"

Fresh tears build in Arthur's eyes, and he tells Eames, "I don't need the drugs… I don't need them when I'm with you… I want… I need you, Eames."

Eames's blue-gray eyes are teary too, and both of them are just sniffling and staring at each other until Yusuf shouts out, "Oh, just bloody kiss already, would you?"

So they do.

Arthur's not afraid.

He knows how Eames feels, and he knows he's not going anywhere, and that's the most comforting news he's ever had. The next week, the snow melts, a warm front moves through, and the sun shines.

Winter is over.

And Arthur is ready.

He's ready to dust the ash off of his clothes, gather together his feelings, and rebuild. He's got Eames, and he's the perfect foundation, and so Arthur is prepared.

Arthur knows.

Arthur knows it's going to get better.


End file.
